Beasts of shadows, fierce hunters from the eighth level of the underworld, feasted on human hearts, and would have found Chimalli's lifeforce a rare delicacy.
But neither of them fitted. Anything from the underworld would have killed Chimalli outright, not bothering with this slow attrition.
Which left the living. Sorcerers, those who made magic, not with the living blood, but with corpses: the skin of drowned men, the hands of warriors fallen in battle, the finger-nails of strangled captives. Chimalli was too young to have incurred anyone's hatred. However, sorcerers had no scruples, and the child was the perfect vehicle to strike back at Yaotl.
“Do you have any enemies?” I asked Yaotl.
He had been walking in silence; now he turned to me, startled. I guess he had not thought of the possibility, but he did not look wholly surprised. “I'm a warrior, and honoured for my skill on the battlefield. But my father was a peasant, and so was his father before him. Some have no taste for this.”
“I see,” I said, and waited for something more. But Yaotl's eyes had moved back to his son, and he did not speak again.
Sorcerers needed to be close to their victims to cast their spells. Perhaps there would be some traces near Chimalli's sleeping mat, something to help me track the curse to its source.
I hoped so. For otherwise it was likely that we would never find the culprit. And then Chimalli would die, slowly leeched of life until every part of him belonged to the underworld.
Yaotl's house was in the richer districts, close to the governor's palace. It was a two-storey dwelling, decorated on the outside with numerous frescoes of gods battling our enemies and presiding over sacrifices – the vibrant colours bearing the telltale sheen of new paint.
Inside, a courtyard garden with pine trees and marigold flowers, tended to by slaves, told me that I had not been wrong in my assessment: Yaotl was wealthy, immensely so.
A woman was waiting for us on the doorstep of the private quarters. She was middle-aged, older than Yaotl, but still beautiful, an arresting, stern beauty that time had not yet altered.
Her eyes moved to Chimalli, eagerly searching the boy's blank face, but after a while she stared at Yaotl instead. He in turn shook his head, almost imperceptibly.
Her disappointment was palpable, though she obviously struggled to hide it. “Who is this, Yaotl?” she asked.
I bowed to her, low. “My Lady. I'm Acatl, a priest for the Dead.”
Her lips twisted upwards, in what might have been a smile. But there was genuine tenderness in her eyes as she embraced Yaotl. And yet… and yet something was not quite right in their gestures or mumbled words of love; something lay between them, as dark as the blade of an obsidian knife.
“Acatl, meet Xoco, my wife,” Yaotl said.
“I'm honoured,” I said. Xoco bowed in turn, but said nothing.
“He says he can help if we show him Chimalli's room,” Yaotl said.
The hope that spread over Xoco's face was almost too painful to contemplate. “I don't guarantee anything,” I said.
“It doesn't matter,” Xoco said. “You're willing to help, and it's enough for me. Come.”
Chimalli's room was wide, with only one reed mat, and clay toys strewn on the floor. It was clear only he slept inside it: again, an indication of wealth.
As soon as we entered, Chimalli walked straight to his mat and sat on it, his torso propped against the wall. Throughout, he never spoke a word. His gaze, from time to time, moved to me, and I had to look away. I had the feeling he saw through me, through everything I was, and judged me lacking.
Yaotl left soon after we entered the room: the pretext he gave was some manoeuvers with his regiment. The real reason, I feared, was that he did not want to be with Xoco. I wondered if they still loved each other, and thought it was one-sided.
I was left alone with Xoco, who had started fussing around her son.
“He's your only child?” I asked, moving about the room, not sure what I was looking for.
Her face twisted. “Yes,” she said. “Yaotl's a good man. He says one child's enough to succeed him.”
“You'd have wanted more?” I asked, and realised what a foolish question it was. For there, no doubt, was the root of their marriage failure.
“Had it been possible, yes,” Xoco said. “It's no longer the case.”
“I'm sorry,” I said. I did not wait for her response, but instead started rummaging around the room.
The clay toys, models of warriors with their clubs and priests with their sacrificial knives, were amazingly detailed. Yaotl had spared nothing for his only son.
In the wicker chest by the mat were more toys: spinning tops of turquoise, and rag dolls. But still no trace of magic, sorcerous or otherwise. I had expected Chimalli to protest at seeing a stranger search through his possessions, but the boy remained sitting on his reed mat, staring at me in eerie silence.
To avoid looking back at him, I raised my eyes to the walls, gazing at the intricate frescoes – obviously painted by someone with talent. The painted gaze of Xochiquetzal stared back at me: the goddess of joy and flowers wore her quetzal feather headdress, and her intricate gold necklace. Her eyes had the same disturbing intensity as Chimalli's.
What had I missed? I thought again about what Yaotl had told me. One morning at dawn, Chimalli had
